


A Keyhole at Thirty Paces

by Argyle



Category: Historical RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-10
Updated: 2004-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 17:19:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17729471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: Byron and Polidori finally arrive in Geneva.





	A Keyhole at Thirty Paces

**Author's Note:**

> Accompanied by his newly-hired personal physician John Polidori, Byron set out from London on April 25, 1816 (after his short-lived marriage) in a Napoleonic carriage. They arrived in Geneva on May 23. The two were rather ill-matched traveling companions, though being that it's almost Valentine's Day, I was inspired to embellish upon their veiled love.

Fading sunlight filtered through the thick glass of the carriage window as it rumbled at full tilt over the muddy road. The snowy caps of the Alps loomed close on the horizon, their heights steadily luminous in the evening air. Although it was nearly June, the snowmelt had only just begun to stream down to the lush grasses and breezy lakes at their feet. Shifting his gaze from the window, John Polidori watched Lord Byron as he reached into his seat's side compartment for the nearly-empty bottle of wine and refilled his crystal glass. The poet straightened the papers that lay in front of him and veiling his eyes with his free-hand, began to scrawl out fresh verses.

"That's your sixth glass of wine yet today, my Lord." Polidori slid back in his seat, crossing his arms in an attempt at assertion. When Byron gave no answer, he continued in a low voice, "I must say -- modern science has shown the ills of what alcohol in large quantities can do to a man's gastric sphere. Speaking now as your physician, I must advise against such a careless attitude."

Byron chuckled quietly, not looking up. "Well, when I meet a man with a gastric sphere, I will be certain to tell him of this devastating news. I, myself, have a stomach that enjoys wine very much, indeed." He finally raised his head and with an arching brow took a great gulp from his glass. The young doctor laughed shortly.

In the quiet minutes that followed, only the scratch of Byron's pen and the gentle din of the carriage's wheels could be heard. The poet tapped his finger lightly against his thigh, marking the rhythm of his words. At length he lifted his eyes to Polidori, who smiled with satisfaction as his glare was finally recognized. Polidori nodded curtly and with a rapid movement of his wrist, removed a leather-bound stack of papers from the bag that leaned by his feet. He sorted through them with his long, languid fingers. Frowning slightly, Byron shook his head and returned his attention to his poem.

Polidori cleared his throat dramatically. "Oh! the touch of silk against thy brow," he paused, his lips pursing lightly. "Has ne'er my soul rejoiced as now." He looked imploringly at Byron, who was grinning broadly. "What?" Polidori scoffed, eyes widening.

"I must advise you to stick to medicine, doctor," Byron drawled. He then leaned forward and in a mockingly confidential tone began again, "Your attentions there are more useful, be assured."

"You think yourself very high, my Lord, but I am certain that your day in the literary spotlight has finished. Why, I am certain..." he faltered, blushing slightly and breaking away from Byron’s gaze.

Byron continued to smile and stood with a leisurely grace. He braced a hand on the ceiling of the carriage and sat next to Polidori, raising a brow slightly. "You were saying?"

"Yes," Polidori grimaced, his eyes darting back down to his pages. He shuffled through them and swallowed, beginning to read once more. "But were you aged one hundred years, our eyes could ne'er taint through solemn tears," he trailed off for a second time as their eyes met.

"What might I say to end your recitations?" Byron shifted in his seat.

"Nothing, my Lord," he smirked cautiously.

"Indeed." Byron leaned in and, closing the short gap between them, lightly pressed his lips against Polidori's. The young doctor shut his eyes, yielding as he felt Byron's hand settle against his cheek. Softly, he placed his long fingers around the poet's wrist, feeling a spark settle within the pulse. After a long moment, Byron broke away, leaning back into the red leather cushions of his seat. He tilted his head, as though daring the other man to retort.

Polidori swallowed roughly and raked a shaky hand through the thick black curls of his hair. As he was attempting to order his thoughts into a reply, the carriage lurched to a stop. He glanced inquiringly at Byron and leaned forward to gain a better view of their whereabouts through the window. The final spokes of the day's light glowed lavender against the buildings that now surrounded them as a curtain. There was a light knock on the door and as it swung open, a biting chill moved into the cabin.

"Good evening, my Lord," Byron's manservant nodded, shifting his cuffs nervously. His eyes darted for a moment to Polidori. "We are just arriving in Geneva now -- the Hotel de l'Angleterre as you requested."

"Of course," Byron nodded. "Thank you, Fletcher." He reached across to the small table that he had been working at and, with a quick dash of his hand, drained the wine from his glass once more. Setting it back down again with a chuckle, he straightened his jacket and stepped outside.

Polidori replaced his papers in their file and grabbed up his bag. He felt the frost crunch beneath his feet as he followed Byron inside, glancing back down the dim street that they had arrived on. The smooth, tiled floor of the hotel was littered with various pieces of luggage and, maneuvering around them with an agile step, he stood behind Byron at the counter. The poet looked around to him and smiled, a glint leaping from behind his dark lashes. He carefully set the pen down to the side of the log book and, taking his room key in his hand, walked off. Polidori glanced down to the entry that Byron had scrawled in. _May 23: The Right Honourable George Gordon, Lord Byron &c London, England; Age: One Hundred._ Stifling a laugh, he followed the young lord down the corridor.


End file.
